Grey Sky Morning – David Woods

Without raindrops, clouds without tears

Grey Sky Morning

By David Woods

Above, beating down, the deluge

Without raindrops, clouds without tears

A sense of falling, distinctive

Rhythm sounds on skin pulled tight like

Animal skin over a drum

–

Below, a road, quiet, running

Grey down a slope, stagnant and stale

The smell, of grey, that gets to me

Sticks in my throat, chokes tears, I mean

Real tears. Does the sky shed them.

–

This all happens inside a house

With too many rooms, a spiral

Staircase going down, down, down low

To no basement so it keeps on

Going down below the carpets

–

The floor is grey beneath the sky

The sky is the ceiling that cracks

That lets the rain in, the torrent

You can’t see but will get you wet

This drench sets in for the long haul

David Woods

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Made Up – Sally Hamilton

Fantastically shaped, beautifully hued

Hi there, my name is Sally; I am drawn to things left unsaid, to snapshot moments in time and to emotions and events which leave a mark.

Made Up

The purple extends outwards from my eye, dark and lurid,

yellowing extensions of a sulphurous lake.
It’s a perfect egg. A perfect ex-ample.

Fantastically shaped, beautifully hued;
if it weren’t right there for all to see
(and turn away from)

and coming from nowhere.

No-one saw it,
there is no story to tell,
no tall-tale of heroism or a drunken fall.
Just another prosaic ending to the blackness which came before
and which no-one was there to witness
(except maybe the cat).

I look him deep in his emerald eyes and he stares back at mine, as it turns from pewter to maroon, from ochre to ash.

He’s not telling what he saw, or heard.

I run my finger along it, I feel ashamed, though of what I am not sure;
the universal embarrassment of such an outward display of drama, maybe.
At the unsaid untruths which accompany such a mutli-coloured lie.

And that’s the thing – as I look at you, eye to eye after so long,
I will never know
and you will never comprehend what it feels like:

Not to know.

Sally Hamilton

Ode To A Forgotten Poem – Arthur Roberts

I wonder at your mysterious origins

I’m 60 years old and have enjoyed writing poetry most of my life.

ODE TO A FORGOTTEN POEM

I revisit you after a decade of neglect.
I am ten full years shorter now
Yet you appear to be longer!
Your sleek lines shine rust free,
Unpolished, I still see my reflection in you.
Your acid tongue sharper than a paper cut.
I take pride in your robust form.
Your truth shocks me anew.
I wonder at your mysterious origins
And can’t remember how I found you.
A sapling of an idea with shallow burrowing roots.
Now I rest in your shade,
You, whom I made.

Arthur Roberts, Tipton

Nashville and Red Lipstick – Sue Burnside

Maybe I’ll get tired of Nashville

I am Sue Burnside. We moved up to the West Coast of Scotland three years ago. Prior to that I was a special school head teacher.I am having a late burst of creativity at the moment, and as well as poetry, I write short stories and am writing a non fiction book about growing up in London in an irish Catholic family. I also write songs and am learning to play the mandolin and banjo.

Nashville and Red Lipstick

Should I decide this will be my last dog?

This one at my feet?

I don’t want to get another one

that has to outlive me,

that has to come to see me in the hospice

Or wear a bandana at the cemetery.

And then go back to the rescue.

–

When should I accept that I won’t go to Nashville

And sing at the Grand Ol’ Opry?

Accept that banjo lessons are a waste of time?

(Not just for me but for everyone.)

And when should I give up the fight with my hair?

Settle for grey steel and not soft gold?

And concede I am not as funny as I think I am.

–

My mother never gave up.

Not like me.

Weeks after she died

the parcels still arrived.

She planted tulips for the next spring,

She never imagined life ended,

Things unmended

She died waiting for batteries for her hearing aid.

–

Maybe I’ll get tired of Nashville,

Of crossword answers slipping out of reach,

Of forgotten words like so much fluff in my mouth,

Then I’ll stop searching for the perfect red lipstick.

I won’t remember the arc

But I will remember the fall,

The arrow coming to land

Somewhere I can’t find.

Sue Burnside

Rehabilitate – Dani Burnett

Can we change our deranged

The poem was written about the rehabilitation of prisoners and the struggle to find the right answers in how to do this effectively. The poem does not take a stance on this, merely asks the question, is there a right way to rehabilitate? I am hoping that people will be able to apply these questions to other ethical grey areas in life. Predominantly a writer of short horror stories, I decided to remove the use of horrific metaphors in order to ask questions about the darker aspects of human nature and just get to the point in asking the questions regarding how we advance as human beings, away from our horrific pasts and into a more hopeful, inspirational future.

Rehabilitate

We are told to grow.

To move, to change, to go with the flow.

To endure, to correct, to reap what we sow.

Though to grow is not choice, but demand as we know.

Is hope in the place to which we exile our foe?

Can we change our deranged and allow them to show

That they too have a heart that is destined to glow?

Or are we just too slow?

Have we reached that plateau?

We are told to grow.

To reach beyond reason; where even gods dare not go.

Dani Burnett

So… – Maxine Emmett

Yet elucidation, I need explanation!

I wrote a lot as a child and as an English tutor, have just started tutoring someone who is showing talent and it’s reignited my passion!

So….

So, I want to know why….

Why, Why, Why?

Rhetorical yet symbolic, it is my addled mind that is determined to spin,

Yet calm, I crave placidity!

–

So, I want to know who….

Who, Who, Who?

Reasoning and sensibility seem in a state of utter complacence,

Yet elucidation, I need explanation!

–

So, I want to know where….

Where, Where, Where?

Locality and Bearings make my brain cells shiver,

Yet logical organisation, I prefer sequentialism!

–

So, I want to know when….

When, When, When?

Continuance and Perpetuity are omnipresent,

Yet finality, I prefer cessation!

Maxine Emmett

Hurting – Lauren Hadcroft

Anarchy behind your eyes

Many thanks to Lauren Hadcroft for a deeply personal entry to Voices and the competition. We appreciate her decision to share this poem.

Hurting

I would be your pearlescent shell,

Sunlight illuminating within the gloom.

The brightness of a bulb on tired, sensitive corneas.

–

Disgruntled –

Disoriented.

Anarchy behind your eyes.

–

Longing to be taken from this lifetime.

A thick cloud of gloves save you from hurtling toward your goal.

Holding you, safely, resistant.

–

Until time is darkness.

Hide yourself within me,

Storms swirl, a deep grey cloud descends Acidic and cold.

Lauren Hadcroft

Love Always – Colin Ward

to breathe through smiles

Colin is a self-published author and poet who has produced two collections to date. His poetry is varied in theme and form, exploring topics of mental health, war, justice, nature, and many more. Having been writing for over twenty years, Colin enjoys each new challenge of expressing ideas, feelings, and the wider questions our lives present us with.

Love Always

Scared and tired

in regretful pain

we mocked the madness

put the world to rights

found laughter again.

–

One last time

I broke your tears

like so many hours

spent clearing the fog

of lonely years.

–

Our final chorus

set spirits free

to breathe through smiles

wider than willows weep

their canopies.

–

Quietly embracing

softest solemn sighs

expressing more

than wistful whispers

of any goodbye:

love always.

Colin Ward

The Dog Problem – Dhylan Patel

A bright and bouncy bounding ball

My name is Dhylan Patel, I am 16 years old and I attend The Latymer School, Edmonton. Currently I am studying English Literature A level (alongside triple science). Poetry is one of my biggest passions and the poem I have submitted is intended as comical: the message should not be misinterpreted as provocative or angry. It addresses some of my earliest childhood memories around dogs in which I was chased through parks on numerous occasions. I do not hate dogs but I do believe their owners ought to be more responsible.

The Dog Problem

Eager and excitable,

Endlessly delectable,

Loyal to the very end,

Rightfully a man’s best friend,

–

A bright and bouncy bounding ball,

Attentive to your every call,

Inquisitive, intelligent,

With empathy and sentiment.

–

Dreamy, round and soulful eyes,

A loving heart: tender, wise,

Fur which shimmers as a jewel,

A muzzle glazed in moisture cool.

–

Since this viewpoint was conceived,

Most mankind have been deceived,

The friendliness which you perceive,

Is what they want you to believe.

–

Let’s start again: the honest way,

Ignoring lies that people say,

Tear away the fake facade,

Reveal the truth: cold and hard.

First of all: the antipasti,

Consider all the mess,

Sewage strewn across the street,

A bog of brown no less.

And why excuse our canine ‘friend’,

From cuts to meat intake,

Breeding, feeding animals,

To die for our pet’s sake?

There seems to be a motif,

Double standards if I may,

Dogs pollute and vandalise,

For which they never pay.

For mains we’ll have aggression,

Your pooch is born to hunt,

Only its domestication,

Turned sharpened instincts blunt.

It sees you and thinks caribou,

Its still a wolf inside,

But its too fat to get you,

So it sets that thought aside.

Why does the chihuahua snarl?

Why does the mastiff bite?

You fool! It isn’t friendliness,

This thug just wants to fight.

For dessert we’ll take the owners,

Who must accept some blame,

For releasing sewage monsters,

Whose bowels they cannot tame.

They pick a dog they cannot handle,

Disproportional in size,

Whilst cluelessly they amble,

It starts to terrorise.

When at last they turn around,

They choose to feign surprise,

You don’t like that barking sound,

Or saliva on your thighs?

–

Sure- they make good company,

They run around I grant,

They do a lot like make a mess,

But nothing people can’t.

–

Why must we keep such creatures?

They’re wild after all,

Though tameable and trainable,

They can’t obey your call.

–

Wouldn’t dogs prefer their freedom?

That’s how they have evolved,

Living peacefully and separately,

Helps all parties involved.

Dhylan Patel

Whirlpools – Graeme Darling

A gentle current caresses

Graeme Darling is a poet who lives in Scotland and who likes poems that rhyme.

Whirlpools

I follow a stream

That tumbles out of a dream.

When I hear its waters sing to me,

I’m in a riverine reverie.

As I walk the banks I observe

The lifeblood pulse and rush and swerve.

While willows sob and wagtails bob,

A gentle current caresses

The long grasses’ sunken tresses.

Mayflies have only one day’s chance

To feel the Sun and mate and dance,

And dippers leave no trace of tracks

As they race beneath the cataracts.

The river nears its destiny

When it becomes the estuary,

And a notion flows over me;

We’re all like whirlpools that revolve

In a waltz of energy,

Until the time that we dissolve,

And are carried to the sea.

Graeme Darling